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The Autumn Of My Discontent

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By MICHAEL WINTER The Tampa Tribune

The Tampa Tribune

Published: October 5, 2008

You can see it on the faces of people you pass on the street. Something's different. Maybe it's the glow of cheeks flushed a bit less red by approaching heat exhaustion. Maybe it's the extra bounce that comes with a 2 percent drop in afternoon humidity. Maybe it's the excited grin as Floridians across the state anticipate the most wonderful time of the year: the end of the hurricane season.

It's enough to make anyone giddy.

And yet, when I tried to get my 4-year-old excited about this magical and time-honored transition from guilty unpreparedness to carefree unpreparedness, she remained unimpressed.

"If we make it through this month, we won't have to worry about our house blowing away until next summer," I explained.

Her reaction was swift and unequivocal. "Aw."

"What do you mean, 'aw'? You want our house to blow away?"

"Yeah!"

"Then where would we live?" I demanded, certain my question would stump her.

"Disney World."

As usual, she was thinking three moves ahead.

There's no getting around it: Fall in Florida is a bust. No changing foliage, no crisp nights, no roadside stands selling unpasteurized apple cider in reclaimed milk jugs. Is it any wonder my daughter greets the season with a shrug? Regaling her with stories of my youth spent trick-or-treating in a coat or waking with ice on the bedroom window is met with skepticism. "Ice only happens in tea," she assures me.

I can't help feeling a pang of guilt about raising my daughter in a climate of such mild variations. She'll never learn the ancient art of layering. Never be able to tell stories about being treated for wood ticks after rolling in one too many leaf piles. Never chip a tooth against a manhole cover after sledding down an ice-coated street on a piece of sheet metal stolen from the neighbor's shed.

These are precious, precious childhood memories. What kind of stories will my daughter have? "When I was a kid, flip-flops didn't have microchips and airbags. You took your chances when you went for a walk, and if you stubbed your toe or stuck your foot in a fire ant mound, well, that was just too bad for you."

To prevent this tragic dearth of memorable experiences, I've come up with a few ways to instill in children a proper appreciation for the Floridian non-season known as fall.

Color me festive: Leaves in this latitude don't change color on their own. Then again, neither do eggs, but that doesn't stop people from turning them into psychedelic Rorschach tests during Easter. Now, I'm not suggesting you dye all the leaves in your front yard. That would be crazy. Just focus on the trunks. I find paint guns to be the most efficient, and their bright splatters nicely mimic the delightful variation of real autumn foliage. And don't be afraid to improve on nature. Just because PurpleSaurus Rex isn't a color that normally occurs outside a packet of Kool-Aid doesn't mean it wouldn't look great splashed across the side of a live oak.

Take a flying leap: Why should Northern kids have all the fun? Floridians need not deprive their children the pleasure that only comes from cannonballing into a heap of dead vegetation. Rake together a mound of grass cuttings, palm fronds and kudzu vines and watch the hilarity ensue. Of course, safety must always come first. Before tossing your tykes into the compost pile (they probably won't go willingly), make sure they're wearing sunscreen. It won't prevent internal hemorrhaging, but the sand spurs will slide right off them.

Rind and punishment: Anything that gives children and parents an excuse to gather together around the kitchen table, hack the top off a pumpkin, ladle out its innards, carve gaping holes in its hide and drop something flammable inside has to be a good thing. Besides, nothing expresses the spirit of the season better than a large gourd rotting on the front porch. Jack-o'-lanterns transcend all geographical, religious and ethnic boundaries with their ability to give us pause, consider our place in the universe and ask: "What's that stench?!"

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